Booty calls no longer accepted.

The Ex-Boy phoned me last night.

Eight months of no contact: not a peep, until four o'clock this morning.

I was lying wide awake in bed, and felt my phone vibrating underneath my pillow: unknown number calling me; unknown number sending me tetxs. Most confusing.

Being in hospital is probably never going to be a positive experience, however, determined to create some good out of a bad situation: upon leaving hospital on Tuesday, I made a conscious decision to delete all contacts on my phone who had ever a) remotely used me: in any way shape or form. b) hurt me - to an irreconcilable degree c) treated me badly d) hadn't bothered to see if I was OK.
Ex-Boy was one of them. Scrolling down the list of contacts, I knew if I deleted his, it would be pretty difficult to get in touch with him again. To get his number again, I would have to ask one of mutual friends for it; this was most definitely not something I wanted to do. And, no, I'd never known his number off by heart - something, I've always been quite proud about.
So, you'd understand my confusion at four o'clock this morning, when I received a text from an unknown number, saying they were at my University wanting to see me.

Ex-Boy.

Eight months of no contact.


The last time we spoke, I think I was telling him I loved him, and that I wanted him to be mine; mine, and no one else's. Then, nothing, eight months of nothing.

I stared at my phone in disbelief for a while, and thought what the best thing to do was. Lying there reading, and then re reading the message again; I could see just how much had shifted between us, and how much I'd changed. A year ago, and I would have most probably got out of my warm bed, and driven to where he was. In my pyjamas. But, I'm not that person anymore. I'm nowhere near to that person. She left a long time ago.
He broke every piece of my heart so exquisitely, that it's taken a hell of a lot of strength not to go back to him. But, I've done it, and I would never compromise myself for him again, not for one minute. I knew what he was calling for. If I went to him, it would change nothing. He hasn't changed one bit. He may never change. I have. I want more than anything he could ever offer me.

I'm not at University. I'm at home.

Maybe I'll hear from him, maybe I won't? I know I'm okay though, and I know I'll be okay if he doesn't call.

Unable to sleep, at about 5 o'clock this morning I tried to imagine being his friend: I imagined meeting him, and I imagined being at his house. Could we be friends? Could we sit with one another as friends? I don't think so.
You see, my strength comes from not seeing him and not speaking to him. My weakness, however, runs though every vein in my body when I'm with him. It's incredibly hard to train your brain not to do something it's done for eight years.

There are many factors still tying my emotions to him - nearly all of them masochistic. However, as I seem to be someone who struggles to divorce pain from pleasure, and ususally revel in all that both have to offer - it's for those reasons alone that, at five o'clock this morning I decided I wasn't ready to be his friend.
I could very easily slip off of the pain free mountain I've managed to climb, and I don't want to. I want to move on, hopefully to a prettier, more pleasureable height; so if it means not having him in my life for another eight months, then so be it. Besides, whatever he has done to me or made me feel, I loved him far too much to ever let him grow into a person I despise.
I want to be fond of him again. I want to see his good side again. I want to fall off the bed laughing with him again.
Rome wasn't built in a day was it?